


In the Midst of Growing Suspicion

by classics_above_classics



Series: Alice Dorothy and Stories Set Elsewhere [8]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Cliffhangers, Gen, Interspecies Friendship, Magic, Misunderstandings, the Fair Folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 15:41:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19112713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classics_above_classics/pseuds/classics_above_classics
Summary: There are creatures who do not understand the human world, who grow in different directions.(Their minds work in directions just as different.)





	In the Midst of Growing Suspicion

**Author's Note:**

> My god, I hate this one. At least I've got something to go off on at the end.

It is an interesting year to be a changeling. And a difficult one.

The person who is not Lento- _Lyric-Weaver_ , they’d called themselves, spinning words into music like so many leaves- the person who is not Lento is loved. It is an interesting thing, an offer of affection, of camaraderie, but they are loved.

They do not understand humans. Humans, bright, precious things that they are, with their odd, contradictory societal rules and the dangerous world of iron they revel in. They do not understand Connor, bright and carefree and confident, with iron in their blood and metal in their veins. They do not understand why a human would want to be close to them, knowing what they are.

Because Connor knows. Of course Connor knows, with their roommate the Debt-Breaker presumably whispering the secrets of the school in their ear. Admittedly, the Debt-Breaker does not seem to understand what she has done, but she understands enough to know that Lyric-Weaver is not her former companion. There is too little iron for her to believe it.

They do not understand what Connor could possibly want with them. They have to want something, of course- this _friendship_ could never possibly be freely offered. They do not understand why this human so freely offers love.

Perhaps it makes them happy to offer it? To have it returned? But that is an insubstantial trade, a deal barely worth making. There is no logic, no reason, in making this deal. Affection, friendship- they are not usable things. The only thing they can lead to is ruin.

But whatever the reason, Connor offers love. Affection. Friendship. These are odd, ill-fitting thoughts, ill-fitting like this body is to them. The being that calls itself Lyric-Weaver is more than this human shell. They are summer storms made flesh, woven into the whispering song of wind and living green leaves. They are not a noble, not of a noble status, but they are great. They are life and whirling, living green. Are humans not meant to beg favours from them? To broker deals?

Humans break all the established rules, they bemoan. They will never understand humans.

Sometimes, lying alone in their new dorm room in the night, they want to understand them. But that is something they will never say.

⋈

Another thing they will never understand in humans is these… choices.

Connor invites them into their dorm room for a _sleep-over_. The Debt-Breaker lets them.

It is a dangerous choice, offering someone use of one’s own abode. And yet it is a choice the two make. It is _friendly_ , Connor explains at some point, _something done between friends_. They don’t quite believe that. Still, they come on the day and time requested. They find no salt line at the door, the students’ protections wiped away.

_They do not understand humans_.

Lyric-Weaver knocks- it is always polite to knock- and they hear Connor’s voice on the other side. “Lyric-Weaver? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is,” they respond hesitantly. Something in them is twitching at the feel of the room. It has the feel of iron within it, the stark, sharp twinge that cuts into their bones, but the protection is muted. It is washed away, like the salt lines, like the bleeding-bright world. Did they hide their iron as well? “May I come in?”

“Of course,” the Debt-Breaker answers, all too welcoming, all too comfortable. “You are welcome as a guest in our abode.”

Ah. Hospitality rules, then. At least marginally safer for everyone involved.

A little less hesitantly, Lyric-Weaver opens the door.

There is the feel of iron in this place, but only really on one side of the room. The other side is clean, soft and light and calming, if a little too Spring for their Summer leaves, and it is that side they almost instinctively head towards until they realize it’s the Debt-Breaker sitting on that end. There is a long, braided cord hanging banner-like above the door with the feel of belief-magic woven into its yarn, bringing _safety from harm and ill will and pain, protection for all without hostility, comfort for any who seek it_. It cannot be Connor’s work. There is barely a trace of iron within it.

“You came!” Connor notes excitedly, sitting a little straighter on their bed. They look… fitting, here. Like they were made to be here. It must be the iron. “Is the room comfortable? If there’s anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, we can take it out.”

“It’s as comfortable as I believe it can be in these circumstances,” Lyric-Weaver replies. They cannot rid this place of the iron remnants as quickly as this. Still, they made an effort to make it all less dangerous. They wonder why. The last human they’d met- the only other human they’d met- had been much less thoughtful. They had been a little too fey to care. “I appreciate the effort.”

“It’s the least we could do.” Connor unzips a full backpack they’d left on their bed, rummaging around a little before pulling out a pack of sweet candies. “Do you want some? If you do, you can just take one! It’s all freely given and all that. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so D. and I pooled all our money and we bought as much as we could from the school store.”

“That- That sounds wonderful. I would love to try one.” Lyric-Weaver reaches out hesitantly, taking one of the offered candies. It seems safe. They try it, and find the sugary food un-tampered with. Perhaps the rest will be the same.

“We hope you have a good time here,” the Debt-Breaker says, smiling pleasantly all the while. She looks uncomfortable, in what humans call pyjamas and with her long hair still up in that twisty bun. She is very distinctly not facing them, with a crochet needle and a long skein of yarn in her hands that must function as a distraction. Did she not want this? Then why would she allow it?

The answer, Lyric-Weaver thinks, lies in her roommate’s excited grin.

Obligation, then, the wish to please someone else. That, at least, is understandable.

Finally; something human that they can understand.

⋈

Despite the discomfort, despite the unfamiliarity, the sleep-over is… fun. Unexpectedly so. Lyric-Weaver is unused to being around people, unused to the closeness something like this human ritual could bring, but they think they find enjoyment in it. It is certainly comfortable enough that they regret leaving.

They regret leaving.

Humans, Lyric-Weaver thinks, staring up at their empty ceiling, know far too well how to spoil someone. One night, just one night with a friend and some sweets and that affection, and already the dorm room they’ve received from the girl Lento seems empty. There is none of the laughter, none of the warmth, none of the welcoming cheer. It is nothing but an empty room, all closed off and silent.

They hate it.

It is too silent. Too cold. There is no burn of hidden-away iron, and while that should be comforting _it is not_. The only thing here of any interest is what few magical charms have been hung about. What was once the Debt-Breaker’s side is empty, stripped clean, and the side remaining is only a reminder that someone else was here.

They wish someone else was here. They wish for it so badly. Someone who would entertain them, who would want nothing of them but their presence and perhaps their attention. Someone who wanted them there. Someone who would find use for them.

They want that so terribly, terribly strongly. They want someone to care about them and find use for them. Is that so wrong?

… Yes. Yes, it is.

Lyric-Weaver- _the thing, the creature, summer storms made flesh, the being woven into the musical whispers of the wind_ \- Lyric-Weaver shoots up, standing ramrod-straight on the bed. Something is wrong. They can feel magic, foreign magic, twanging against every protection they have, insistent and seeping and _creeping_ into their mind. Something here has to be causing this. Something is wrong.

They do not want to be used. They have never, _never_ wanted to be used. They are of the Summer Court, bright and breathing and powerful, and though they are not noble they are not some _toy_ to be played around with. _They do not want to be used_. This means something here, someone here, is making them twitch. Someone wants them to fall.

They stand, their magic sweeping the room. Whatever it is that made them think that, it creeps everywhere, in every grain of wood and every speck of dust. It is not old magic, not the kind that they know that has been set in place for years upon years, but it is regular, it is practiced, and it has been used. Someone wanted to make others their tools, their _toys_. And they used this room to do it.

_There_.

Lyric-Weaver strides furiously to the door, glaring up at the little trinket set above it. It looks like nothing special, just a little basket woven from straw holding some semiprecious gems, but it reeks of the foreign magic. Either it is incredibly close to the source, or it is the source. They reach for it, pulling it down with an uncharacteristic recklessness that sends every one of the little orange gems tumbling to the ground. They care not for the gems. The enchantment is not in them.

It is simple magic. Human magic. Take apart what creates it and it will be broken.

They tear the little straw basket apart.

And the magic _does not go away_.

Where, then?! Where is the cause of the invasive, relentless magic?!

Lyric-Weaver _screams_ , a noise that shifts to inhuman in barely a split second. They slam a fist into the doorframe. The wood of it comes alive under their anger, sprouting leaves in a spiking, spiralling pattern. This room, these magics, the humans that lived within- they hate them, hate them _all_ -

They freeze.

There is a portion of the doorframe that is not blossoming, that is not coming to life. It is a tiny little patch upon which a group of hearts have been carved.

They try to strike it through. Their hand is thrown back before it can touch the wood.

_Human magic_. Frustrating, endlessly infuriating human magic. The carving is warded against fey magics, against anything magical at all. They know this kind of magic. It is iron that will break it. It is salt. It is everything antithetical to them and their kind, everything they cannot use.

Who could have done this? Who would have the insanity, the _audacity_ , to curse the room of a changeling?

Lyric-Weaver growls, low, angry. They have their suspicions.

⋈

“Will you assist me?” Lyric-Weaver asks, meeting the smaller student’s eyes. “I have told you of my predicament. I have trusted it to you. So, that in mind, I ask again; will you assist me?”

It is bold; it is brash; it is dangerous. But the students of what they call Dorm 3N are bold themselves. They offer so much freely. It stands to reason that they will assist freely as well.

“Of course I will,” the Debt-Breaker answers. There is no debt from her. She looks faintly nauseous, faintly frightened, but when does she not? “I’ll offer you my help with this situation. Freely given. It should probably go away if I scratch it out with an iron nail.”

“Follow me, then.” Lyric-Weaver nods, leading the student away. They do not bother to lead her astray; her socks are always the wrong way around. Faintly, they hear four clicks, and some belief-magic of protection starts to circle warily around her. It would be easy to break, if they tried; they leave it be. For now, they just need to get her to the dorm room.

And to the dorm room they go.

“There,” Lyric-Weaver says when they get there, pointing towards the little cluster of makeshift hearts. “Score it out. It _twitches_ in my head. I need it gone.”

“… I’m happy to help.” Her mouth twisting into a grimace, the Debt-Breaker pulls a long iron nail from her pocket, gripping it tightly as she reaches up. It takes a few moments, a few forceful scratches, before the deed is done. The magic fades more with every heart that is scratched through, until there is nothing remaining.

The moment the last of it dissipates, Lyric-Weaver lets themselves breathe a sigh of relief. That magic is gone. And they know who cast it.

“I appreciate the help,” they say quietly, catching the Debt-Breaker’s attention. “That magic… I hate the things it made me think.”

“It must have been terrible,” the Debt-Breaker replies, still staring silently up at the carving she’d destroyed. “I apologize for not finding it sooner.”

“Do you think that? Do you really?”

“What?”

“Do not act as it I am _blind_ , Debt-Breaker.” Lyric-Weaver grabs her by the arm, pulling her sharply into the room. This form, this glamour, slips just quick enough that they slam the door behind them with a single sharp tug of a vine. “Do not act as if I am thoughtless. I know what you did.”

“The _carving_? You think I made that carving?” Clever little human, catching on so quickly. At least there are no mindless denials yet. “I didn’t- I would never-!”

Anger spikes in them like so many buds. The leaves on the doorframe are growing. Lying, sick little Debt-Breaker, with her glasses and her pleasantries. As if she has done nothing wrong. She was to be watched the moment she erased so many debts. She was to be suspected. Lyric-Weaver is not blind, is not deaf, is not dumb in any sense of the word. They will not be tricked. They loom, an inhuman growl rising in the back of their throat. They speak.

“I don’t believe your lies.”


End file.
